Fight for your right
by Julie Verne
Summary: Betty can never walk away from a fight.
1. Bittersweet

Fight for your right

* * *

><p>Betty doesn't tell you where she goes at night, but after a few bruises on her face, you can guess. She's been going out boxing again. You don't know why; you don't ask why. She has a right to privacy, and you've invaded it enough by taking up room in her house. She doesn't answer to you. She does, however, let you ice her bruises, she sits still under your scrutinising gaze and once, your nimble fingers stitching the edges of a cut on her arm together. You apologise the entire time, and each time you dig the needle into her skin because you know how it feels to be on the other side of the thread.<p>

You always tell her where you're going. You owe her that much; she tried so hard to keep you safe that you feel you have to let her continue to do so. If it's late, she'll pick you up outside the club and walk you home, hackles raised like a skinny street-cat if men cat-call after you down the street from the club.

* * *

><p>One night there's a knock at the door and Betty is unceremoniously dropped on the doorstep. You help her into the house. It's bad this time; one eye is swollen shut.<p>

You half-drag, half-carry her to the couch. You fill a pail in the kitchen, warm water, no soap and bring a clean cloth to the lounge before you go upstairs to start the long process of filling the bathtub. She doesn't always let you wipe the blood from her skin; she washes it off after the ice, but tonight she lies still as you wipe the cloth over her face. You're gentle, especially over her eye, and she barely flinches. There is dirt in the wound. You'd think they'd sweep up the ring more often. Her hair is matted with blood. Down on her scalp is a tiny nick but there is a lot of blood. You clean up as best you can, but she'll need that bath that's still running and some antiseptic. There goes your nice quiet night. You move methodically down her face.

Her lip is split. There's dirt and blood in her mouth and you've never asked why she still feels compelled to do this. She has her house, and you're safe in it. She has no need to do this.

The cloth is too clumsy and the bucket water is already dirty. You bring her a cup of water and get her to rinse and spit in the bucket.

You empty the bucket, fill it again. You rinse out the cloth and go back to her lip.

The cloth is still too clumsy. You wet your fingers in the bucket, bring them to the cut. The blood starts to run again in the water, but you're used to dealing with wounds.

Usually they're your own.

You're being as gentle as you can but there is dirt in there and after what sepsis did to Archie, you aren't taking any chances. Your fingers of one hand hold the wound open while the fingers of the other dribbles water over it. You run your forefinger over the cut until you're satisfied.

Betty, meanwhile, has put up no resistance. Her face is limp and tired in your hands. She eventually pushes you away. You click your tongue at her, reach forward but she pushes you away again.

"Please," is all she says, so you nod and turn to her skinned knee and knuckles instead, pretending not to notice where the hardened nubs of her nipples are pressed against the singlet she's still wearing.

She usually comes home in her street clothes. In the morning you'll have to find out where this boxing ring is and retrieve her clothes. The shorts they make the boxers wear really are too short, you think, as you run your fingers over a bruise on her thigh. She whimpers then, draws herself into a ball.

In the meantime, you have to check on the bath. You go upstairs to turn the faucet off and when you come down Betty is pretending to be asleep on the couch. You've watched her sleep too many times to fall for it; there's too much tension in her spine. You try to bundle her into your arms; she's little more than skin and bones these days, no matter how you try to spice up her meals, something to do with weight classes.

She's still a little heavy for that, or you've become unaccustomed to carrying heavy things, so you pull her upright and drag her up the stairs as kindly as you can.

You shut the bathroom door behind you, even though you're both in there and the front door is locked. You're creating the illusion of privacy, you suppose, and lift Betty's singlet over her head. It's been so long since you showered with her at the factory that her body seems unfamiliar to you now. Certainly there wasn't so many ribs before. There's a cruel bruise in between her shoulder blades, a coward's punch, you think to yourself.

You help her off with the shorts, then help her slip into the tub before leaving. You don't want to invade her privacy any more than you already have.

It's when you're emptying the bucket over the garden that you remember the way her lips felt under your fingers, so soft and warm and wet. You'd never touched Ivan's mouth; you'd never seen a need to, but you can tell, you can remember how full Betty's lips are compared to his.

You drop the bucket, scurry inside.

* * *

><p>You have to help Betty out of the tub, and she is considerably less dressed than you left her. It's no real surprise to you, her body; you used to shower together.<p>

But you never had to touch her like this then. Your hands second-guess themselves, you try to grasp some safe flesh but everything you touch feels dangerous. You end up letting Betty hold steady onto you and climb out herself. You wrap her in a towel, and she feels like a broken bird, like the chickens your father would bring back to the trailer for you to pluck, neck snapped, all bones and limp.

You help her limp back to her room, then pick out some underwear, which she wriggles on under the towel before sitting on the edge of the bed. You gently towel her hair and she surprises you by leaning her head against you where your rib cage tapers to belly. Your dress is dampening but you run your fingers through the short hair at the nape of her neck. She pulls away eventually without looking at you.

You fetch the antiseptic from her dressing table, surprised she's still letting you look after her. It takes a few moments to locate the cut on her scalp, but you dose it well. Her left eye is still swollen but there is little you can do about that. You skip over her mouth and tend to her knee. She remains still, just watching.

You finish with her knee and swallow.

"Be careful not to swallow this," you caution her gently. Then you dab your finger in the antiseptic and bring it to her mouth.

Her lips are still so unbelievably soft and damp and warm. Her breath filters out around your finger and eventually her top lip comes down, lightly trapping your finger as she swallows. She breathes out again and you remove your shaking hand from her face, withdraw your tingling finger from her mouth.

"That was the last payment," Betty says finally, while you stare at her mouth.

You nod and retreat from her room.

* * *

><p>You know what people were saying about the two of you when you moved in with Betty. You'd ceased to care. You know her heart; she laid it bare for you and no evil lies therein. People can believe what they want, but Betty has her home, which is a haven to her. And you have Betty, who is in turn your haven. And there's no crime in that. There's a crime in what they think you are to each other, but Betty's done her time.<p>

You never felt as safe as you did the day you were all moved in and Betty closed and locked the front door to her house behind her with such a sense of pride. Everything bad was out there, and everything good was in here, and nothing could cross the threshold without Betty's say-so. And that was worth a few funny looks here and there.

You didn't think you'd see Gladys as often, since you quit the factory work, since she became some sort of secret agent, but she drops by when she's in town, she bunks with Betty, or on the sofa and she looks at you considering, as if she's wanting to ask a question you both know but can't put into words.

You don't know what you'd tell her, if she asked. Betty's always been monumental to you, but you're still figuring out how you feel about the sacrifices she's made for you, how you feel about Ivan (you feel like you'll turn a corner in this city and he'll look up, smiling, like he used to and you know he's dead but the sight of a head of curly red hair makes you ache), how you feel about letting her take the fall for your father's. It's so complicated, and the memory of your fingers on her lips doesn't make it any less so.

You'd always been so black and white. Right was right, and wrong was wrong. Now you can see a few wrongs can be justified in the pursuit of the eradication of evil, but your moral compass still spins dizzily, sways back and forth over past decisions.

You'd be relieved, you tell yourself, if Betty just moved on. If that bond girl came back, or Betty bought someone home and you could hear girlish whispers and stifled giggles from her room. She's a responsibility you don't think you'll ever be ready to take on. But she looks at you, when she thinks you're not looking, not paying attention, and her face softens and you can feel her mask slip a little, you feel yourself melt a little. You remember her hand in your hair in the hospital bed, Ivan's screams echoing through the bustling halls.

She never expects anything from you; not even rent. You try to have breakfast ready for her in the morning, and dinner on the table by the time you leave for the club and she looks surprised every morning as you pour her coffee. She'll tell you gruffly that you didn't have to go to all that trouble, but you just smile and tell her it's no trouble. You have to pay her back somehow.

You can't really tell, most of the time, the difference between your affection for her, and your gratitude to her. Alone in your room, you bring your finger to your own mouth but your own lips feel hard and dry and disappointing.

If that was the last payment for the house, then that means Betty won't have to fight again, which means this was probably your last opportunity to touch her like this, to tend to her wounds, to touch her mouth without raising her suspicion. You're glad she won't be coming home beaten any more, but you'll miss having a reason to touch her.


	2. Calling Doctor Jones

It's strange, taking care of someone else the way you used to want to be taken care of. To have someone else wipe the blood from your back, to have someone else gently apply antiseptic to open wounds, it was all you dreamed of back then. You'd tell yourself that someday someone would do that for you. And now you do that for Betty, who is not being abused but is consenting to having the snot beat out of her so she can buy a house.

It's a pretty good deal, when you think about it. And with the uncertainty of the war hanging over you even with America in the game now, things might be different in a few years, in a few months, in a few days. She needs to get what she can while she can, before the war ends and takes it away from her. You can respect that.

Betty's door remains firmly closed in the morning, and there is no response when you tap on it. She did take a blow to the head last night, so you can't in all good conscience just leave her alone. You call in sick to VicMu for her, Carol chattering aimlessly while all you want to do is go back upstairs and open that closed door.

When you do, Betty is asleep on her front, bruise between her should blades calling out for you to run a soothing hand over it. You perch on the edge of her bed; you should have bought coffee but she's started to stir and you want to make sure she's not really hurt before you go do something so normal. You feel like something has changed, like a debt has been paid.

When she tries to lift her face, it brings the pillow with it. You cradle her head, lower it back down and get a wet washcloth to separate cotton from raw skin. Again, she barely flinches. The wound has wept over night, and when you gently pat down her eye, it opens a little and fluid seeps from it.

"Doctor," you say sternly, and she nods, then stops nodding abruptly. You know, in that moment, you'll have to get a doctor to make a house call. You're not taking her anywhere if it hurts that much to nod.

You pour a few asprin from the bottle on the dresser into your hand, slip them into Betty's mouth and hold her head up just enough so she can swallow when you hold the glass you left on her nightstand last night to her lips. She sputters, and you wipe her mouth reflexively, not even thinking about it until you're back downstairs on the phone again, making sure a doctor can get here that morning.

* * *

><p>The doctor advises rest and hands over a cream for her face and some pills; antibiotics, he says, to stave off infection, and another few for the pain. You thought he might have heard who both of you are, might be eyeing this arrangement suspiciously but he snaps his briefcase shut, the pay from your last show firmly inside, and tells you that your friend is very lucky to have someone like you to keep an eye on her, and to keep her out of the ring for another month. He must have been able to tell she was a boxer from her knuckles, split open again last night and still healing from previous fights. You lock the door behind him, mount the stairs again.<p>

You give her the pain pills first, crushing them into her water this time before bringing the glass to her mouth. She spills again, and you use the back of your cardigan sleeve to wipe her face because you want to be able to look her in her one working eye at some point today.

The antibiotics need to be taken with food, so you put them aside and audit her injuries again, with the cream this time, starting with her knuckles.

Her hands fit so nicely into yours, and it isn't the first time you've noticed it. When you've danced with her, or dragged her along with your own impetuousness, you've noticed how cool her hands feel in yours, how they fit just right, how the web of each thumb holds firm to your own.

Ivan's hands were so large. You felt dwarfed by him a lot of the time. You did what he told you to do, within reason, because that's what women have to do. They have to listen to their men.

Not that it did you or your mother any good.

His hands were so large, and you trusted him, mostly because Betty had trusted him (she had held these hands too, you'd find yourself thinking sometimes, but only see a lamentable difference between his and hers) but you were always bracing for the first blow. It's not a favourable comparison, now that he's dead.

It wasn't fair to Ivan, you dating him. It wasn't fair to Betty either.

She's squinting quizzically at you from one eye, and you pick up her other hand, equally comfortable in yours as you rub the cream into the thin skin over the bone as gently as you can. You rest a hand under her head to get at her face. It feels hard under the surface, and Betty used to be so soft. Well, not really, but softer than this. Sure her hands were blistered from hard work and she never carried any extra weight but it feels like everything you touch is made of bone, sharp and trying to tell you to stay away. But you cant't stay away. You can't stop touching her, not until you've coated the open wounds. Maybe not even then. Maybe you just need to reassure yourself that she's here in a tactile way right now. That's probably it.

"What would you like for breakfast?" You ask as casually as you can. She shrugs and freezes, sinks back into the pillows, head heavier in your hand. You sigh. "Do you think you could manage some toast."

"Sure," she says a little hoarsely; you prop her head up again, pour water into her face. "And a gasper?" She asks hopefully. You drag her handbag over from the dresser, pull out her softpack and a box of matches. You don't want her knuckles to crack open from the exertion of striking a match so you light it in your own mouth, check on the wound that's closed overnight in her mouth, then place it between her lips.

It's not even noon and the only thing you've done all day is touch her damn mouth.

She coughs and you retrieve the cigarette, bring it back to your mouth, pull the covers off of her knee and rub the cream into that wound too. You give her scalp a quick swipe, pass her the cigarette, look back from the doorway.

She's asleep when you return with toast, cigarette not even half-smoked snubbed out in the ashtray.


	3. Walk Away

It's hard to walk away when you could just sit on her bed and watch her sleep. Every time you woke up in hospital she was there, sometimes asleep herself, sitting in that chair, forehead pressed against the wall, ready to greet you with a sleepy smile as soon as your hand stirred in hers.

There wasn't a bomb this time and you feel awkward in her space when she's not conscious. You just tidy up, take her laundry downstairs and start washing it in the laundry sink. You feel like you have to do something. It's not like you've even come close to losing her, nowhere near, but you still feel unaccountably lucky. If she was gone, you don't know what you'd do. You have no claim to this house, you have no steady income, no national clearance, no skills to speak of. But worse than that, Betty would be _gone_. There'd be no point to anything and life would be stagnant, like it was when she was in prison. There'd be nothing and no one left to care about you, and nothing and no one left to care about.

It's a beautiful day outside, the wind is chilly but the sun is warm. You know how confliction feels enough to appreciate the dual aspects seperately. You leave the laundry flapping in the wind to go inside and cancel the performance you had lined up for tonight.

You won't leave her side. Well, you've left it right now, but you won't leave the house if she needs you.

* * *

><p>When you go back upstairs, the toast is gone and her face has more colour. She's sitting up, and you hand her an antibiotic which she makes a face at before complacently swallowing. Your hand is halfway to her mouth before you realize she hasn't spilled, and you shift your hand to take the glass instead.<p>

"Feeling better?" You ask as you perch on the side of her bed for what feels like the tenth time in a few hours. You push the hair away from the swollen side of her face. "Wait, I'll get something cold."

You take her glass and go looking in the ice box. You haven't had ice this week and the coldest thing in there is the milk, which is wildly impractical to hold against her face. If she just told you when she had a fight, you could have the ice delivered in time. You put a wet cloth in there, vowing to get it later. You fill the glass with water, drink it absently while looking into the back yard. You could go buy some ice, but you don't want to leave her alone in the house. It's late in the afternoon now and it's too late to call for some to be delivered. Maybe you could ask them to deliver tomorrow? You make another call, fill up the glass again.

"Nothing's cold," you tell her, opening the curtain a little before putting down her glass and sitting on her bed again. She fixes her face into what must be an approximation of a smile. You don't know what to say, now she's awake. You've been having all these thoughts all day but you can't put any of them into words.

"Did you give as good as you got?" You ask finally. She nods a little, not pausing halfway through this time. You smile at each other. "I should get some groceries," you say finally, a little uncertain. You still don't want to leave her alone, but you can't just sit here with her with nothing to say. She nods again, and you stand up. "I'm not going out tonight, so what do you want for dinner?" You can see the surprise in her face and shrug.

"Soup," she says finally, the words sounding thick and some distance away. "Toast nearly killed me."

You light her another cigarette before you leave, wanting to warn her to put it out if she felt like she was falling asleep but not wanting to sound condescending so you don't. The shop isn't far, and you see a few neighbours, smile at a few acquaintances. You get snubbed surprisingly little for a revue girl. There's some chicken; you're already a paycheck lighter but you can't just make her vegetable soup. She needs some protein, she needs fattening up. You've never been motherly, not even to your own brothers. Instead, you resented them for the lives they lived that were very different to yours. But Betty, Betty you just want to wrap up in a quilt and feed her soup and rub the creases from her forehead and hold ice to her swollen cheek.

You slip a few icecubes from the meat section in with the vegetables, hoping they'll make it home without melting. Another softpack, because you're running low.

You've never really been good at cooking. You took a few blows for that, and learned to be more precise with the knife, to make vegetable chunks more even. Betty's never complained, though. And when she gets home while you're still baking a cake, the look on her face is almost more than you can bear.

You take the ice up first, wrapped in the cool cloth. She's asleep, so you brush the hair away from where it's stuck to her face, gently place the cloth over the worst of the swelling. Every time she breathes out her warm breath hits your face and you find yourself lingering, comforted by the rhythm of her sleep.

* * *

><p>Soup isn't interesting. You listen to the wireless, chop the meat and vegetables, put them in the pot. You wish you had something better to offer, but she asked for soup and it's going to have to be the best soup you've ever made. She drinks it a few hours later, ice long meted, appreciative, and you run the water for the tub but she manages by herself this time. You ask for the address of the club but Betty pretends not to hear you. When you ask about her clothes, she says she'll go get them herself. She's shut you down so effectively that you feel like you should leave.<p>

* * *

><p>It's Friday night, usually one of the biggest nights for you and you're pacing the kitchen, picking things up and putting them down again, washing perfectly clean dishes. You know Betty is awake; you don't know how but you know that if you went upstairs she'd greet you with a smile but nothing to say. At least she has two days off before she has to go to work; that should be time enough for the swelling to reduce, for her face to be presentable again. The number of times she walked in there with a black eye is almost laughable.<p>

* * *

><p>You wish, sometimes, that you could brush past her in the kitchen to put the dishes in the sink, casually grasp her chin, press a kiss to her mouth before gathering the rest of the dishes. And she'd just shrug to herself and finish wiping down the table and nothing would have changed; in your mind, you can tell yourself that nothing would change. You'll have been brave and she would still expect nothing, would shrug it off as a moment of gratitude and not expect more of you. You try not to think about it, overanalyze it or anything, this desire for affection or anything like it, but when she brushes close you find yourself turning to her expectantly and her gaze is always fixed on a spot just over your shoulder while your heart takes a few minutes to slow down to normal.<p>

You used to feel fear like that, the thumping of your heart sending shockwaves all the way to your palms. Now when you rub your hands together in the aftermath, you can't tell if it's residual panic you're rubbing away or an urge to reach out and pull her closer that you're trying to brush from the memory of your hands so you won't think about it that night alone in your quiet room, what she would have done if you'd just reached out a hand to push her that tiny bit off balance that would send her tumbling into you. She'd be apologetic, and you'd wonder why you'd done it until she had trouble pulling away, her face so close to yours that it would only take the slightest bit of effort to just…

She deserves better than this.

She deserves better than you.

* * *

><p>Author's note: Surfacing is going to take a while. I need to reread and possibly edit some of it.<p> 


	4. Quiet Little Place

You open the door to see if she needs anything. The stillness of the house is getting to you; without Betty it's just a house. With Betty, it's home.

She's asleep, and you step forward, perch yourself on the side of her bed again. You rest your hand on the swollen part of her face. Before you even realise what you're doing, you've pressed your lips to the bruise.

She wouldn't let you do this if she was awake; she'd shift uncomfortably away from you. You wouldn't let yourself do this if she was awake, but she's not and you're left with the implications of that to figure out by yourself.

You want to kiss her, but you don't want her to know you want to kiss her, because you aren't ready for that yet. You aren't ready to hurt her with something you're still so uncertain about.

* * *

><p>She wakes up with your hand still on her cheek. She smiles anyway.<p>

"Does it hurt?" you ask.

"Feels nice" she says, and you think back to the last time you had your hand on a wound of hers like this.

At a piano, in Tangiers.

"I really like you," you tell her, seemingly out of the blue, still thinking of that stolen moment, a moment you stole from her, the smile on her face as she leaned in, casually confident in being reciprocated. She has no such qualms, no such memories of that moment right now, just a smile she saves for you, a smile you've never seen aimed at anyone else, not even Ivan or Gladys.

You weren't around much when Teresa was, maybe out of self-preservation, but that smile was different. She was so self-assured and confident and…she was happy. The smiles she gives you might just be for your benefit. The smiles she gave Teresa didn't have an element of strain around the eyes. There was nothing held back there. She held back nothing from Teresa.

"Figured, else you wouldn't be here with me." She smiles again; you feel her facial muscles move then wince beneath your hand.

She lifts up a corner of the cover and you hesitate for a moment before you slip inside, tuck your warm feet under hers. She drapes an arm over you and rests her forehead against your cheek.

"Tell me story," she says.

So you tell her a story.

* * *

><p>The only stories you know are Bible stories, and you don't quite want tales of violence to intrude on this quiet little place.<p>

So you wend your way into a story about a horse in a stable, looking out over the fields as he trots his master to the market and back in a heavy cart, enduring the whip, just looking over at green grass in the fields next to the road he paces down, heavy bitumen hard on his hooves. Days melt into each other without a single kind word or enough hay.

But the years pass and the master dies and the horse gets sold to a family with small children that give him sugar and drive him in a much lighter cart and rub him down with their tiny hands afterwards. And each night he responsibly brings the children home after school (they hold his reins, but he knows the way home as well as they do, and resists any attempts to lead him astray), his harness is removed and he is released into a field where he can roll in the dirt and peruse his own kingdom of grass.

It could be a metaphor, you suppose. You look over and Betty is asleep, her face young and untroubled in the dim lamp light.

"You're beautiful," you whisper to her as she sleeps.

She doesn't think she's pretty. You've heard her refer to herself as a war horse, or worse. She always said it with a sigh of resignation, but you figured it was because she didn't want the male attention that beauty would bring her. It took you far too long to see the beauty in her. Gladys, you could see right away. But Betty, she's not glamorously beautiful like that. She's quietly beautiful, moment by moment, in the strength of her, the way she stands up for what she believes in. When you make her laugh, she's at her finest and it's then you wonder why you're clinging to your beliefs instead of holding tight to her.

You put your hand over hers where it rests on your torso. This is your land of milk and honey.


	5. Psalm 23

She leads you to lay down in green pastures. She restores your soul. Yea though you walk through the valley of the shadow of death, you will fear no evil, for she is with you. Your cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow you all the days of your life: and you will dwell in this house of Betty forever.

* * *

><p>You wake up, dreaming of an alleyway, of a desperate need to pull that man away from Betty.<p>

You know she's alive when you awake because her head is resting on your chest, her exhales crossing the landscape of your torso like a breeze in the desert. It still takes a moment to verify that this is real. Your hand, despite itself, comes up to cradle the back of Betty's head, to run through her hair. It's so soft and fine, despite the chemicals. That's what the turbans are for, you guess. You can't find the cut on her scalp and when you stop looking Betty's eyes are fixed on you and she is very much awake.

Last night was an anomaly. Betty is almost never physically affectionate with you. If you want a hug, you have to approach her with good reasoning because she might make you explain yourself. Now she's looking at you like she expects an explanation.

"Looking for that cut. It seems to have healed over," You say quietly, slipping your hand away from her hair. You move to slide out of her bed where you're half beneath her but her hand tightens on your rib cage. You settle back onto her bed and her grip loosens, her fingers splayed across your stomach.

"You know how I feel about you," she says calmly, in a matter-of-fact way. "That hasn't changed, and honestly I don't know if it ever will. I wished it would, once, but it's kind of… nice. I don't want to ruin anything. I like having you around. I don't think I could live without having you around."

She looks like she's telling the truth but she surely can't be. How can she pretend like this, day after day in her own home with her defenses down that she prefers being friends?

"You make me feel like I'm a better person when I'm around you. As though you expect the best from me, but I'm not pressured to supply my best, I just have to be me, and that's fine and you'll still think the best of me. I don't think I'm a great person, but I can believe it when you look at me." She's fiddling with a button on your dress, one between where your ribs part and it's awfully distracting.

"I think you're amazing," you tell her. She doesn't look hopeful or anything, just nods against your chest. "And stubborn," she snorts against you now, "and brave and smart and protective and kind. If those qualities don't make a person great, what does?"

She inclines her head to looks at you then, and you know, without either of you saying anything, what she means. You swallow unexpectedly.

"You might not think it of yourself, Betty, but you are great." She looks away again, curls little tighter into herself; into you. You haven't shared a bed with a girl before; you did share with your brothers and sometimes your mother, but not with a girl. Betty's slept sitting beside you before and you feel bad that she didn't feel comfortable the way you did to slip into the bed next to you. You wonder if you should have slept in the chair. But right now she's warm and soft and a little sour and bruised and this is so much better than waking up in your own lonely bed. She hums and stretches and rolls away from you and you're struck by a sense of loss.

It's ridiculous. She's right there, all you'd have to do is roll onto your side and reach out…

Instead you climb out of the bed.

"Iceman should be here soon," you say, pulling your dress down from where it's drifted up to your hips. Why, you don't know because Betty doesn't even roll over, just grunts acquiescently and burrows deeper into her bed.

* * *

><p>Gladys is back in Toronto; you know this when there's a knock on the door and there she is with a suitcase as usual. The iceman stares at her bemusedly before hauling the sheet of ice in after her. You pay him quickly to get him out of the house so you can help Gladys with her things.<p>

You love seeing Gladys, but you finally thought you were ready to sort this out, and now she's here you're going to have to wait, and you'll probably change your mind over and over, running over things you could say but never will.

"Betty's a bit rough at the moment," you say slowly. "Boxing."

"I'll stay down here then," Gladys says in reply, never even considering she might not be welcome. You take the ice pick and remove a chunk of ice, roll it in a clean towel. Gladys shadows you upstairs.

Betty's asleep again, but Gladys perches on the side of her bed (your spot, you think to yourself) and runs her hand over Betty's swollen cheek until she awakes. You hand Gladys the towel because there's no room for you on the bed, or even here.

Gladys puts her hand on Betty's cheek, looks into her eyes.

"I would have leant you the money, if you'd asked," she says, then brings her lips to Betty's cheek.

You've been jealous of Gladys before, but right now you almost feel like you hate her. When you were trying… something…with Gene she took all of his attention (Not deliberately at first; you know that now. She is rather alluring.) but you never felt you had to share Betty with her. At the start, when you were new at the bomb factory, Betty would deliberately get away from her so she could spend time with you. Now Gladys is kissing Betty, albeit on the cheek and you're seething.

"Better?" Gladys asks, still cupping Betty's cheek. Betty looks up, smiling a little shyly and you can't stand it. You straighten your dress and step out of Betty's room.

Neither of them turn to watch you go. You have the feeling they never even noticed you leave.

You don't even know if they knew you were there.


	6. And We Will Never Be Royals

You bring in the washing. It looked like such a beautiful day when you opened the door, but clouds have come scuttling in, like the arrival of Gladys has overcast not just your own mind but also the atmosphere.

You know a little of traditional families; the husband goes out to work and the wife stays home, does the laundry and the cooking.

You are very much the wife in this relationship. You're a kept woman and right now you want very much for Betty to keep you.

* * *

><p>Gladys is still not in evidence downstairs when you go back inside. She's still upstairs in Betty's bedroom, on Betty's bed.<p>

You're glad she indicated she'd be sleeping downstairs tonight because the nights she spends in Betty's room, in Betty's bed – you don't spend those nights sleeping. You keep wondering what you could do to get an open invitation like that. You don't have the same relationship with Betty that Gladys does, and you think you missed something major when you left with your father. Betty's always called Gladys Princess and lately, that's how she's been treating her.

Maybe they were lovers. Gladys did love James, but she also loved Gene at the same time. She's never been shocked or horrified by Betty, and you can all too easily picture a night of drunken dancing turning into so much more, Gladys leaning into Betty, Betty's startled face when Gladys' warm wet mouth met her own, the enthusiasm on Betty's face once she realized it was real. Gladys would be so much better at this too, like she is with everything. She wouldn't pull away when Betty kissed her, she'd just wait a while and smile back, maybe laugh a little before moving back in. They'd match each other's enthusiasm and you're such an uncertain little church mouse.

She's probably a better kisser than you too.

You set up the couch for Gladys, trying not to think of the shy smile on Betty's face when Gladys pulled away.

* * *

><p>You're halfway done when Gladys leans against the doorway and crosses her arms.<p>

"You care for her, don't you?" She says, not quite accusingly but it's a pointed question nonetheless.

"She's my best friend; of course I do." You tell her as you arrange the pillow on the couch.

"Something's changed. Can't quite figure out what it is, but something's changed. I feel like I'm intruding here. Has something happened?"

"No," you tell her quickly, pick up the pillow you'd just put down and pummel it a few times before replacing it at the end of the couch.

"But you want it to," Gladys says quietly, and you finally look her in the eye. She's always been compassionate, and her face conveys just how much she wishes it was easier for you. "I can stay with my folks," she offers.

"No, of course not. You're welcome here. You're always welcome here."

She steps forward and hugs you then; Gladys has hugged you many times but this time it feels awkward, like you have too much breast pressing against her and you hands hover before they finally reach her shoulders and you kind of pat them before pulling away.

"It's okay," she tells you. "I don't mind. I've never minded."

"I don't know how you're so fine with all of this."

"You and Betty, you're good people." You smile awkwardly at her, fetch her favourite blanket, the royal blue with the velvet trim. "I do love you Kate, you know that." She says it so casually but you can't remember anyone ever saying those words to you before. It makes you freeze momentarily, before you shake it off with a shiver, smooth the blanket down over the couch.

"I'm fond of you too," you tell her with an uncertain smile, because you're never used the word love without the context of God and you don't want those connotations ruining this. She smiles back at you and you know she's thinking about that part of your life you don't like to think about, the part that left you with broken skin and a broken mind. Somehow Betty's been stitching the pieces back together with a careful thread of love, and you can almost see who you would have been if it hadn't been for your father. You can pretend at times to be normal and well adjusted, but Betty also knows you well enough to know when you need to fall apart a little.

"Dinner?" You ask.

"Whatever's convenient."

"Betty's still on soup."

"Soup it is then." And that's the moment when you stop being mad, because Gladys _gets it_, she understands that if Betty can't eat solid food then she won't eat solid food in front of her, and she won't even let on for a moment that she ever wanted anything else to eat. There's a word for this, and you struggle for a moment.

"I, I…" Gladys pats you on the shoulder.

"Save it for Betty," she says, her mouth quirking.

* * *

><p>Author's note: Kate's so insecure that once she fell for Betty, she'd over-analyse Betty's relationship with every other woman and compare herself unfavourably.<p> 


	7. keep me (company)

So tell me, why should I keep you if you won't keep me company

* * *

><p>You let Gladys make you coffee, because it's so nice to be able to sit down in your own kitchen and watch someone make something just for you. It's so new to you; Betty does it now and then but because of the schedules and because of you need to somehow <em>make it up to her<em>, you do most of the cooking. Today it's nice to let Gladys do something you're perfectly capable of doing yourself for you, and you wonder briefly if this is how you make Betty feel every morning. You hope so, because it's a lovely feeling. Gladys is comfortable in your kitchen, she hums as she pulls the mugs out of the familiar cupboard, asks how your work is going.

Even when you're not actively being jealous of her, Gladys does make you feel inadequate. She provides Betty with something you could never give her; complete acceptance. While you love Betty more than anything you've ever known, you're still having trouble coming to terms with it, with who she is, with who you are, to what she is to you. Gladys just knows Betty's a good person, and that's all she needs to know. You're still stuck between God and a hard place, and every time you convince yourself that everything will be fine, scriptures fill your head again and you find yourself averting your gaze from Betty when she stretches instead of drinking in the lines of her. Many other verses are not relevant today, but the two that pertain to this echo in your mind. It doesn't matter that marriage is no longer between a man, his wife and her slaves. It matters that you cannot marry Betty. You don't want to live in sin. You've never thought about it before; you'd planned to marry Ivan, there was a hen's night and a church booked. You won't get any of that this time around.

You still have the dress, and thinking about Betty in a suit makes you sigh deeply. Gladys looks up from the coffee, smiles and fills the mugs.

Maybe you should talk about this with Betty first. Everything about this future you're thinking about would be breaking the law. You've done it before, but Betty wore the consequences. You want to make sure she's on board.

The coffee Gladys places in front of you derails your thoughts, and you're thankful for that.

* * *

><p>Sometimes you find Gladys looking at you questioningly, like she's still trying to figure you out. You know she knows you killed your father, but she also knows Betty well enough to know that <em>you didn't ask her to go to jail for you.<em> Betty's so honourable and protective, but you have to wonder if she would have taken the rap for Gladys.

* * *

><p>The coffee is amazing, and Gladys can only talk about unclassified things so she speaks of public parks in faraway places, of meals eaten openly in restaurants still standing in the husks of destroyed suburbs, gunshots just within hearing range. She speaks of furtive picnics in the backs of moving cars with blacked-out windows. She speaks of spam, of sleeping under parked trucks. She'll shiver now and then, brushing against a raw memory but she still smiles.<p>

She always wanted to make more of an effort against the war than being a pretty secretary in an office. And now she's got what she wanted, she actually seems happy. Her hands are not as soft as they used to be, when she reaches forward to grasp your forearm as she shares an extraordinary fact or two, and she looks much older than when you met her.

It suits her. The life she lives now suits her.

Betty comes downstairs, gripping the railing. She blinks and rubs her head halfway down and you climb up to her, sling her arm over your shoulder and help her down.

She's used to taking punches; this one must have been a real doozy. You help her over to the table, and Gladys excuses herself under the guise of making Betty a coffee. You offer Betty your own and she takes a sip. You watch her mouth as she lips her lips, dry after so long in bed. You check her knuckles where they grasp the mug's handle but they haven't broken open again. You manage to stop your hand before it brushes against hers.

"How's the head?" You ask, longing to touch her on the back of her head, between her shoulders, her shoulder. Anywhere, really. You draw your hanf back into your lap, tighten it into a fist.

"Better, I think," she says and takes another sip.

"Have you had the painkillers?" You ask, and she scrunches up her face.

"I don't think so," she says finally, and you push back your chair as Gladys brings another mug of coffee to the table.

* * *

><p>When you come back down with a pill, Betty's face is in Gladys' hands. You trip on a step you've navigated successfully for over a year now. They both turn as you stumble, then you place the pill in Betty's palm, excuse yourself with your coffee to the lounge room. Even when you're not actively being jealous of Gladys, you're still inadequate.<p>

* * *

><p>Author's note: RIP, Sir Terry Pratchett. May Binky take you sweet into that dark night.<p> 


	8. I know, I know, I know

You sit on the sofa that's not made up for Gladys and sip the coffee, your left hand on your right shoulder, drawing as much comfort as you can from yourself. It's a familiar position to you. As much as you just made peace with Gladys and the way she touches Betty, you can't help the way you feel about it. If Gladys had stayed in Toronto, would Betty have offered her the spare room instead? Or was the offer some remnant of what she claims to feel for you but doesn't show? Gladys and Betty follow into the room you before you're able to fully process what's happening.

Gladys is more cheerful than she was alone with you before, but there's a different quality to it now. Her smile is too bright and she keeps glancing at you, trying to bring you into the conversation even though you're clearly very invested in your coffee. She's here to see Betty primarily; you're just an afterthought in this instance, as evidenced by the guilty look on her face when you walked in the kitchen. She never had to fight for your friendship, and maybe that's why she values Betty more. You watch the way Gladys and Betty casually touch each other, and you remember a time when you were able to do the same thing. Now you over think it; it's awkward for you to touch Betty because it's never enough anymore. It's awkward to touch Gladys, because she knows.

* * *

><p>You excuse yourself to reheat the soup. You wish it was a little better, now you have a guest, but it's what's for dinner and Gladys, bless her, would never taunt Betty with something she couldn't have.<p>

Dinner is quiet, and you can see Betty lagging halfway through, pushing the soup away from her. She excuses herself quietly and has to hold onto the chair to stand, and you're beside her in a moment, steadying her with your hands. You help her upstairs, up each and every confounded step, and when you look back Gladys is just watching with a smile on her face.

Betty seems to have overdone it; it looks like she needs help changing into her pyjamas. You're pretty sure she'd be perfectly content to just lie down and sleep but you were uncomfortable when you slept in your dress last night, and you don't want her waking up because she's tangled or because a zip is poking into her. (You didn't mind, it was nice to wake up and remember where you were, tangle your fingers in Betty's where they rested on your ribs and fall back asleep with a sense of peace you haven't had since Betty watched over your hospital bed.) She needs her rest. She's complaint, drowsy. She leans her head against you when she can, rests her weight on you. It's difficult to pull her dress over her head like this; at any given point some part of her is pressed against you, your hands keep brushing her soft bare skin and her breath keeps catching but you can't see her face. When you finally manage to remove the dress, you prop her against you and move toward her pillow to get the pyjamas beneath.

"Leave it," Betty mumbles, her breath warm on your neck. "Don't bother."

"I want to make sure you're comfortable," you say slowly. "It might be cold tonight."

"I'll be fine. Just need to lie down."

You help her to sit down, and she slumps almost immediately. It's taken a lot out of her and you wonder briefly if you should have set her up on the couch instead of Gladys.

You give her the antibiotic and another painkiller while she's sitting, rub some cream on her knuckles, face and knee, trying not to look at her too closely in her underthings. She's so soft and unmarked; expanses of smooth, unbroken skin draw your eyes. When you finally look back at her face, her eyes are closed and her face is pale. It makes you feel even worse about the causal perusal of her body your eyes just took.

She looked so much better this morning, but the excitement of Gladys' arrival must have given her the adrenaline to get through the afternoon. She's so... floppy, when you lift her legs onto the bed. You're a little worried, but her eyes open and a moment later her hand comes up and catches your chin.

"I'll be fine, I promise," she says. "Just tired, is all."

You wouldn't have had the nerve to do this if Gladys hadn't already, but you lean in and kiss her swollen cheek. It tastes like antiseptic, but Betty smiles, moves her hand from your chin to run it through your hair.

"Goodnight," you said, swallowing suddenly, her face very close to yours. "I'm next door, just yell if you need anything."

"I know where you live," she says, smiling a little goofily, and you're hoping the painkillers she just took are kicking in already, hoping that she sleeps soundly.

* * *

><p>Author's note: I miss this show. So much.<p>

Reviews, as always, welcome.


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